Today I saw Uncle Richard Summers walking in the town road: and cannot
get him out of my mind. I think I never knew any one who wears so
plainly the garment of Detached Old Age as he. One would not now think
of calling him a farmer, any more than one would think of calling him a
doctor, or a lawyer, or a justice of the peace. No one would think now
of calling him "Squire Summers," though he bore that name with no small
credit many years ago. He is no longer known as hardworking, or able, or
grasping, or rich, or wicked: he is just Old. Everything seems to have
been stripped away from Uncle Richard except age.
How well I remember the first time Uncle Richard Summers impressed
himself upon my mind. It was after the funeral of his old wife, now
several years ago. I saw him standing at the open grave with his
broad-brimmed felt hat held at his breast. His head was bowed and his
thin, soft, white hair stirred in the warm breeze. I wondered at his
quietude. After fifty years or more together his nearest companion and
friend had gone, and he did not weep aloud. Afterward I was again
impressed with the same fortitude or quietude. I saw him walking down
the long drive to the main road with all the friends of our
neighbourhood about him--and the trees rising full and calm on one side,
and the still greenery of the cemetery stretching away on the other.
Half way down the drive he turned aside to the fence and all unconscious
of the halted procession, he picked a handful of the large leaves of the
wild grape. It was a hot day; he took off his hat, and put the cool
leaves in the crown of it and rejoined the procession. It did not seem
to me to be the mere forgetfulness of old age, nor yet callousness to
his own great sorrow. It was rather an instinctive return to the
immeasurable continuity of the trivial things of life--the trivial
necessary things which so often carry us over the greatest tragedies.
I talked with the Scotch Preacher afterward about the incident. He said
that he, too, marveling at the old man's calmness, had referred to it in
his presence. Uncle Richard turned to him and said slowly:
"I am an old man, and I have learned one thing. I have learned to accept
life."
Since that day I have seen Uncle Richard Summers many times walking on
the country roads with his cane. He always looks around at me and slowly
nods his head, but rarely says anything. At his age what is there to say
that has not already been said?
His trousers appear a size too large for him, his hat sets too far down,
his hands are long and thin upon the head of his cane. But his face is
tranquil. He has come a long way; there have been times of tempest and
keen winds, there have been wild hills in his road, and rocky places,
and threatening voices in the air. All that is past now: and his face is
tranquil.
I think we younger people do not often realize how keenly dependent we
are upon our contemporaries in age. We get little understanding and
sympathy either above or below them. Much of the world is a little misty
to us, a little out of focus. Uncle Richard Summer's contemporaries have
nearly all gone--mostly long ago: one of the last, his old wife. At his
home--I have been there often to see his son--he sits in a large rocking
chair with a cushion in it, and a comfortable high back to lean upon. No
one else ventures to sit in his chair, even when he is not there. It is
not far from the window; and when he sits down he can lean his cane
against the wall where he can easily reach it again.
There is a turmoil of youth and life always about him; of fevered
incomings and excited outgoings, of work and laughter and tears and joy
and anger. He watches it all, for his mind is still clear, but he does
not take sides. He accepts everything, refuses nothing; or, if you like,
he refuses everything, accepts nothing.
He once owned the house where he now lives, with the great barns behind
it and the fertile acres spreading far on every hand. From his chair he
can look out through a small window, and see the sun on the quiet
fields. He once went out swiftly and strongly, he worked hotly, he came
in wearied to sleep.
Now he lives in a small room--and that is more than is really
necessary--and when he walks out he does not inquire who owns the land
where he treads. He lets the hot world go by, and waits with patience
the logic of events.
Often as I have passed him in the road, I have wondered, as I have been
wondering to-day, how he must look out upon us all, upon our excited
comings and goings, our immense concern over the immeasurably trivial. I
have wondered, not without a pang, and a resolution, whether I shall
ever reach the point where I can let this eager and fascinating world go
by without taking toll of it!